I Hate the Fall
by Lioness Black
Summary: [PostRent. Oneshot.] Mark and Maureen move to LA, leaving Roger in New York. Roger deals with being alone. Mark deals with leaving him there.


Title: I Hate the Fall   
Author: Lioness Black  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Special Thanks: My beta  
Warnings: Character death. Lots of them. Mild slash. Written for a suicide challenge at speedrent, so... yeah.  
Disclaimer: Not mine, just good fun.

* * *

_There really is no reason anymore. No more best friend. No more girlfriend. Why not go back on the drugs? It's not like I have my health to worry about, I'm going to die any day now as it is._

That's really the only thing I can fathom Roger's thoughts being in those weeks. He mentioned those things enough times, his impending death due to the HIV. That he only stayed clean thanks to me. Only because of Mimi.

When I left for California with Maureen, Roger assured me that he would be okay.

"Look, I'm moving too. It's not like I'm going to be in this giant loft all alone for much longer. There are some affordable studio apartments that I'm looking into." Roger put his hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the eye. "I'll. Be. Fine."

"Okay, I mean, if you're sure," I replied. "It's just that is hasn't been..."

"I'll cope," Roger said. He pulled me into a hug and held me for a minute or two. I think he was being more comforting to me, than I was to him.

"Really, if you need anything, you'll call, right? You have the number of our place in LA, right?"

"You wrote it on the wall in marker. Marker."

I laughed. "That's was a horrible pun, Roger."

"I'm tense, it's the best I could come up with."

Maureen poked her head into the room. "Pookie, we've got to get going or we'll miss the flight."

"I still can't believe you're leaving with Maureen," Roger said. "Out of all the people in the world for you to end up with, I really didn't think it would be her."

"You make it sound like we're together," I said. "We're not. And we won't be."

He nodded. "I know. Maureen is going to go pick up all the beach babes while you're still applying sunblock."

"We're going there to work!" I exclaimed.

Roger laughed at me. "I know, I know. Go, work, have fun. You don't want to miss your flight."

I gave Roger one final hug, and in a surreal moment, I noticed the smell of his soap (the same soap I used, but it smelled different on him), the way the skin on the back of his neck felt, and how he breathed uneven, shallow breaths. We pulled away and Roger gave me a peck on the mouth, which, after that, felt right, and not weird at all.

"Bye, Rog!" Maureen called, lugging a giant suitcase out the door.

"I'll call the second we get to LA," I said.

"Have fun, Mark," Roger said. "Have a good life."

"Don't worry, I'll be back!" I said, trying to joke, but Roger looked serious. I should have known right away that something was wrong.

I couldn't bring myself to say the words "good-bye," or even "so long." Instead I waved and said, "I'll call."

As I walked out of the loft, I heard Roger say to himself, "I hate the fall."

I didn't think much of it at the time. The comment itself was obvious, but a strange one to make in March.

Jump ahead. It's the day before Thanksgiving.

"Maureen, I'm leaving!" I yelled into the apartment.

"Wait! WAIT, WAIT, WAIT!" Maureen ran to the door, swinging a duffle bag from her shoulder. "I just had to say good-bye to Tarah!"

Tarah. Maureen's latest fling. In the seven and a half months we had lived together, Maureen had gone through two boyfriends, three girlfriends, and we had slept together eight times.

Autumn was a tough time for all of us, but it was harder to notice in California. The seasons changed, but I hadn't worn a scarf. I did remember to pack it because I knew that it wasn't going to be sixty-eight in New York.

October always reminded us of Angel's death. Then a year later, at the beginning of November, Collins died, not of AIDS, but in a car accident. Then, the week before Thanksgiving last year, Mimi finally lost her battle with the HIV. Roger took it hard, and that's why it was so important to me to be there.

And why it had been so hard to leave in the first place.

New York to visit Roger. Then to Scarsdale for family time. Maureen would go visit her family. Then back to Roger before we left. I might even try to get Roger to come with me to see my family, but... maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

I had spoken to Roger on the phone on a somewhat regular basis, once every couple of weeks. These last few calls, he sounded like he was fading.

Over Halloween, I asked him, "Is everything okay there, Roger?"

"Sure."

"You sound tired."

"Well, it _is_ after one in the morning here, Mark."

"I know, but..."

"Tell me about Maureen's girlfriend." Roger was up to date on all her sexcapades, except the ones with me. I never told, and he always guessed.

So I babbled about Tarah, and then it slipped out of my mouth, "Are you still clean?"

"What?"

I paused. I hardly had even realized that I said it. "Are... you still clean?"

"Of course I am! What kind of stupid question is that?"

"I don't know."

Our last conversation before I went back to New York, I did most the talking, until the end, right before we hung up.

"Well, it's late there," I had said. "And I'll see you in two days."

"Yeah... Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. I really do. You know that, right?"

I sort of smiled. "Yeah, Roger, I do. I love you too."

"Yesterday was the day Mimi died. I mean, the... you know. I just... I know she knew how I felt about her, I really do, but... sometimes I wonder."

"She knew. She still knows. And now she and Angel are making skirts in Heaven."

I thought Roger would laugh, or cry, or show some sign of life, but he was just quiet. "I wanted you to know, Mark, that I love you. Tell Maureen that I love her too, will you?"

"I will, but... I mean, we're going to see you in two days. You can tell her yourself."

"Yeah, I know. But tell her for me? Promise?"

"I promise." I was bewildered. The faded Roger was gone, and here was this sad, Roger with a child-like persistence. "Roger, should I be worried about you?"

"Don't be worried. I just... you know me, I don't like planes. Just making sure I get this out before you get on it."

"I promise, we won't crash and burn."

"Look, I gotta get some sleep."

"Okay, yeah, me too. I'll see you Roger." I paused. "Love you."

"Love you too, Mark."

We hung up, and I actually felt a calm.

When our plane landed in New York, I still had that calm about me. I pulled out my old camera (I had upgraded before moving to LA, but there was something about the city that cried for my roots) and filmed almost the entire way to Roger's apartment.

"It'll be weird," Maureen said, "seeing Roger living somewhere other than the loft. He lived there for years. Since before I met him."

Maureen had known Roger longer than I had, and I realized that she was right. "Maybe we should have called first."

"It's Roger. He's expecting us, and our plane was actually on time. We're barging in. We're crashing for the night, and hanging out with our old buddy Rog. God, I want some coffee at the Life Café. That shit they call coffee in LA is bullshit."

We got out of the cab, and dragged out luggage upstairs, and I knocked on Roger's door.

"Is it just me, or does this hallway stink?" Maureen asked.

I sniffed, and nodded. "Yeah, that's... but, well, what else could he afford?"

She shrugged and nodded. She banged on the door. "Rog-head, let us in, motherfucker!"

"Rog-head?" I repeated.

She shrugged again. She hit the door with the heel of her hand. "Let us in!"

I jiggled the handle. The knob turned in my hand. "It's unlocked," I said.

"He's going to be robbed," Maureen said in a very matter-of-fact tone. She pushed opened the door and took a step back. "The smell isn't the hall, it's... this."

She didn't have to say it, I had already figured that much out. She was right in not calling it an apartment, it was a din.

Natural light filtered in through a dirty window and the floor was covered with clothes and plates with dried-on food. I was busy staring at the couch covered with coats and boxes, when Maureen grabbed my arm.

"Mark, look." She pointed to a coffee table. Casually sitting there, like it belonged or something, was a used needle.

"Shit," I muttered. "Roger? Roger, are you here?"

"Bathroom," Maureen said. She was right, it was a two room apartment, the kitchen, living area, and bedroom were all one big room (that wasn't that big). There were two doors. One was open, showing a closet spilling with junk, and the other was closed.

I went to the closed door and there was a Post-It note stuck to the front of it, and written in Roger's handwriting, were the words, _I Have AIDS_.

I knew what I was going to find on the other side of that door. It wasn't a note, it was a sign.

Hands shaking, I opened the door. A dingy yellow light bulb lit the scene. I stared at Roger in the bathtub, the red water up around his waist, as his head lay against the rim of the tub, his eyes half open. One arm was dropped into the water, the other was hanging over the side, a puddle of blood under it.

I heard Maureen scream. I could imagine her in my mind, hands over her mouth, staring through her tears as she screamed, slightly bent over, as she does when she's angry or upset, but I didn't turn to look at her. My eyes couldn't turn away.

Shut down. Don't think. Don't feel. Forget that this is Roger. Forget that this is your friend. Forget that you _know_ you shouldn't have left him. Forget that you feel like you could have prevented this if you had stayed.

Forget that you feel.

My hands stopped shaking as I pulled my camera out of my pocket and began to film. Calm again, as I pulled myself away from the scene and watched it through the window of my camera.

"MARK!" Maureen screeched. "What the hell are you doing? What are you doing?"

"November twenty-fourth, 1993. Five-forty, eastern standard time. We've come to New York. Close on Roger who has... who... he slit his wrists in the bathroom, leaving us a note that says... I have AIDS. Two days ago, he made sure we knew that he loved us."

Maureen let out a sob. "We love you too, baby."

"We know, Roger. We know."

Jump ahead. Christmas Eve.

Maureen and I were back in LA. We stayed in New York for an extra week.

We were there when the police came, and when they took Roger's body away.

We were there when they told Mrs. Davis that Roger had obscene amounts of heroin in his system when he died. That it was shocking that he was able to kill himself when he should have been dead from an overdose.

We were there for the funeral, where a man who didn't know Roger spoke about his wasted life. I got up and spoke about his wasted heart, loving only the damned. I said at least now he can smoke pot with Collins and watch Mimi and Angel model dresses. Maureen added that he can have three ways with Mimi and April. We laughed, weird hollow laughs. No one else did.

We were there to clear out Roger's apartment. Mrs. Davis told us to take anything we wanted.

We took the photo albums. We took Roger's guitar, even though neither of us know how to play. Maureen took the last remaining Well Hungarians poster. I took the Post-It note.

Christmas Eve.

Who really cares at this point?

Roger was right.

Fuck the fall.


End file.
